Dangling by a Thread (A Mainely Needlepoint Mystery, Band 4) - Softcover

Wait, Lea

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1496706269 ISBN 13: 9781496706263

Verlag: Kensington, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

The Mainely Needlepointers are about to learn that no man is an island—especially when greedy developers want his land . . .
 
Hermit Jesse Lockhart lives alone on King’s Island, three miles east of Haven Harbor, Maine, where he’s created a private sanctuary for the endangered Great Cormorants. But when a wealthy family wants to buy the island and Jesse’s cousin Simon petitions for power of attorney to force him to sell, Jesse is the one who becomes endangered.
 
Mainely Needlepointer Dave Perry, who befriended Jesse in the VA hospital, rallies the group to his defense. Angie Curtis and the ravelers stitch “Save the King’s Island Cormorants” pillows and sell T-shirts to pay for Jesse’s legal counsel. But tragically, on a visit to the island, Angie finds Jesse dead. Now the search is on for a common thread that can tie the murdered man to his killer . . .
 
“Offers a wonderful sense of place and characters right from the very beginning. Highly recommended.” —Suspense Magazine on Threads of Evidence

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Lea Wait lives on the coast of Maine. A fourth generation antique dealer, and author of the Agatha-nominated Shadows Antique Print mystery series, she loves all things antiques and Maine, and she’s learning to do needlepoint. She also writes historical novels for young people set in (where else?) nineteenth-century Maine. Lea adopted her four daughters when she was single; she’s now the grandmother of eight, and married to artist Bob Thomas. Find her at Facebook, Goodreads, and at www.leawait.com.

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Dangling by a Thread

By Lea Wait

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Copyright © 2016 Lea Wait
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4967-0626-3

CHAPTER 1

"Time has wings and swiftly flies
Youth and Beauty Fade away
Virtue is the only Prize
Whose Joys never will decay."

— Sampler stitched by Chloe Trask in Middlesex County, Massachusetts, about 1800. Originally dated with four digits, in later years someone (probably Chloe herself) removed the stitching on the final two numbers to conceal her age.

The August fog felt damp and soft on my face as I sat on a bench on Wharf Street, sipped my coffee, and watched anchored boats in Haven Harbor appear and disappear. The early morning fog hid the Three Sisters, the islands that protect our small Maine harbor from the ocean's strength.

In the distance I heard the motor of a lobster boat making early morning stops to check traps.

A figure in a small gray skiff, almost seeming part of the fog, was rowing smoothly toward shore, out of the mists. Whoever he was, he knew the waters. I watched as he tied his skiff to the town pier and pulled himself onto the dock. That's when I noticed he was limping.

I knew Haven Harbor's boats and their owners. I didn't remember ever seeing that skiff or its occupant.

I'd been back in Haven Harbor over three months now and was beginning to feel comfortable again in the house that had seen the joys and pains of my growing up. I'd agreed to stay six months: settle in, manage Mainely Needlepoint, the business Gram had started, and come to terms with the past.

The house seemed empty since Gram had married and moved out. I didn't blame the house. I'd been lonely before, in other times, other places.

I'd battle through it. I was already thinking six months in Haven Harbor wasn't long enough. I might stay longer.

Still, some mornings, like today, I was restless, and nothing but the sights and sounds of the sea would soothe me. Those ten years I'd spent in Arizona, far from the consistent tides I'd depended on to bring order to my life, had left a hole only closeness to the ocean could fill.

Too often in the past weeks, like today, I'd woken early to the motors of lobster boats leaving the docks and the screeching of the gulls following them.

I'd filled a travel mug with coffee and headed for the wharves, where I'd be close to the sea and smell the salt air and dried rockweed and mudflats. Where I could forget Mama and my past. Forget what brought me back to Haven Harbor.

The man on the dock was tall and thin, his skin almost the color of his straggly gray beard. He might have been forty, or sixty. His faded flannel shirt hung on him as though intended for someone heavier, someone stronger. His jeans were belted with rope.

He picked up two canvas bags from inside the skiff and walked up the ramp, limping, but not hesitating, toward where I was sitting. He didn't look at me or at Arvin Fraser, who'd finished hoisting his bait barrels on board the Little Lady and was preparing to leave for the day's work with Rob Trask, his sternman.

Whoever the strange man was, he was focused on whatever had brought him to Haven Harbor. He didn't look around, greet anyone, or seem to notice one of his worn sneakers was untied.

Curious, I watched him head south on Wharf Street until he was lost in the fog.

I walked down the ramp to where Arvin and Rob were about to cast off.

"Morning, Angie," said Rob. "You're out early again."

"Who was that man?" I asked. I pointed to his skiff, gray as the morning. "The man who rowed in."

Arvin grinned. "Guess you ain't never seen him before. He's a character, but he don't bother no one. Lives out on one of the islands beyond the Three Sisters."

"I didn't know anyone lived out there," I said. "Those islands are just outcroppings of ledges with a few trees on them. No houses that I remember. No water, no electricity. Just birds."

"Right," said Rob. "He don't seem to mind, though. Been out there a couple of years now."

"What's his name?" I asked.

Arvin and Rob looked at each other. Arvin shrugged. "Don't rightly know. Never asked. Folks in town call him The Solitary."

CHAPTER 2

"Let spotlefs innocence and truth
My ev'ry action guide
And guard my inexperienc'd youth
My vanity and pride."

— From sampler stitched by Dorothy Lancaster (1781 – 1806) near Portland, Maine, in 1785. Dorothy used the old f form for one s in her verse, perhaps copying it from an old book. By the beginning of the nineteenth century most printers had dropped this letter form.

I shivered in the damp fog. The Solitary.

Solitary. Alone. That's the way I felt this morning. It wasn't a good feeling.

Who was he? How would it feel to live by yourself on an island? Islands beyond the Three Sisters were three or four miles offshore. Far enough out so waters could be dangerously rough, especially in winter. Too far out, in choppy deep waters, for a comfortable or safe row to the mainland.

I looked down Wharf Street after the strange man. Where was he heading on this early morning?

For no reason other than curiosity, I followed him.

My years working for a private investigator in Arizona automatically kicked in. I stayed far enough behind him so the fog enveloped both of us.

He walked easily, his slight limp almost unnoticeable. Too able for any crippling disease I could think of. Maybe he'd slipped getting into his skiff and badly bruised his leg, or cut his foot on barnacle-covered rocks.

I invented stories as I walked, following the uneven sound of his sneakers hitting the pavement, knowing I should turn around and mind my own business.

The Solitary didn't notice he had company. At the end of Wharf Street he turned inland, up the hill toward the west side of town.

I followed, staying close to the storefronts. The fog here, away from the harbor, wasn't as dense. If he turned around, he'd see me: a stranger who, like him, was wandering the streets of Haven Harbor just after dawn.

I could smell fresh bread baking at the Thibodeaus' patisserie two blocks away. I should end my foolishness, leave the mysterious man alone, buy a scone or croissant, and head for home.

But as he walked farther, my curiosity grew.

He turned right, past the hardware store. I paused, letting him get far enough away so he wouldn't see me. The sun was rapidly burning the fog off. A truck turned into the parking lot in back of the hardware store. Gulls cried over the harbor.

During most August days these streets were busy. This early in the morning they were eerily still. I stood, listening. A door slammed. A car engine started. A crow in the distance called and was answered by a crow closer by.

I walked to the corner.

The Solitary was sitting on the steps of the post office. I glanced at my phone to check the time. Pax Henry, the postmaster, wouldn't open for another hour.

The man stretched his legs, rubbing the one that bothered him and noticing his errant shoelace. He tied it, as the door of the post office opened. Pax stood in the doorway, his bushy red hair and beard shining in the sun. He gestured, and the man waiting outside followed him in.

I checked my phone again. No, the post office shouldn't open for another hour.

But this morning it had.

I'd spent too much time working for a private investigator. I had too many dark fantasies.

There were no secrets here. The mysterious man was in town to pick up his mail.

What was strange about that? What was...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Kensington
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2016
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1496706269
• ISBN 13: 9781496706263
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 352
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Dietmar Rusche; 15110751138; rusche.dietmar@gmx.de; ; Dr.-Willi-Bergmann-Str. 13; St. Andreasberg; 37444; Deutschland